


Dr. Hinkley Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Gilligan

by EveningInHornersCorners



Category: Gilligan's Island
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Explosions, Gen, Subtle religious elements, The Professor can invent anything, The Professor has an epiphany
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 05:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17298560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveningInHornersCorners/pseuds/EveningInHornersCorners
Summary: Man is an advanced creature. But in order to fully put his sophistication into action, he must regularly return to his most primal instincts. And the greatest of these is love.





	Dr. Hinkley Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Gilligan

" _And now, ladies and gentlemen, we are pleased to inform you that the incoming typhoon has veered sharply northeast, thus missing Honolulu by several hundred miles. Unfortunately for our friends in California, it is very probable that…_ "

The Skipper clicked off the radio, and turned to us with a foolish grin on his face. Not that it mattered. I'm sure we all had similar demeanors.

"Did you hear that, Lovey?" Mr. Howell asked, eagerly reaching for his wife's gloved hand while pulling his teddy bear close to his chest. He didn't sound as though he intended the question to be rhetorical.

"Well, that's a mercy. That silly little storm would have _ruined_ our tea party, girls." Mrs. Howell smiled indulgently at the two younger women in her midst.

"Well what are we waiting for? Let's go set it up!" Ginger exclaimed, clamoring to her feet from her log. Mary Ann trailed after her, while Mrs. Howell gave her husband a quick peck on the cheek and Teddy a pat on the head before she followed.

The four of us who remained stared blankly at one another. Apparently we had only just realized that the storm was our plan for the afternoon. We didn't have a backup.

We continued to sit in such an awkward silence for several minutes before someone had the fortitude to break it. As it happened, that someone was me.

"Well, if you will all excuse me, I have some work to catch up on." I thought I heard Mr. Howell mutter "egghead" under his breath as I rose to leave, but I wasn't sure. Even if I had been, I would have pretended not to hear. I silently wondered if this was all a false calm, if another storm could be upon us in a short time, and I realized we couldn't afford to have ill relations between or among any of us, no matter how insignificant the cause.

I proceeded into my hut, and a strange sense of calm immediately rushed over me. To anyone else, it might have been inexplicable, but to me the reason was as clear as crystal.

Two days before, when we were well into our storm preparation, I had happened upon a very odd looking tree I had never seen before. I'd tried to siphon some of the sap into a coconut half for observation, only for it to eat through the bottom, narrowly missing my hand. Luckily, I had brought some very durable specimen jars with me on the three hour tour (a scientist must always be open to the possibility of discovering new flora and/or fauna), and they served the purpose of holding this corrosive sap quite well. From there I transferred it to a large, incredibly sturdy clear dish that I dug out of the supply hut; it now hung precariously from a bamboo frame secured in the sand floor of my hut.

Because of the storm, I had thought I'd have to put my study of it on hold—all I'd found out so far was that it was an acid, and thus the tree it came from must be enormously durable. But with the weather apparently cooperating, I couldn't help but smile proudly at my find before getting to work.

I fetched my notebook, and, pencil in hand, sat down at my desk, keeping the container in sight but making sure not to disturb it, like a mother who settles down to do her sewing by the baby's crib.

I first took note of the large bubbles rising lazily to the surface. Now, I'm not a movie buff, but I have seen a fair number of psychological thrillers and B horror movies—the result of being scientifically curious and a lifelong insomniac, respectively. And until now I had, for the most part, brushed off vats of bubbling acid as the work of scientifically ignorant screenwriters looking for a way to spice up their run-of-the-mill plots. But with an actual sample of such a thing in front of me, I wondered, could it…?

I never got to finish that thought. It was brutally interrupted by the clatter of coconut dishes banging against one another—horse hooves, anyone?—followed by a cheery "Hi, Professor!"

I clumsily jerked around, dropping my pencil and almost crashing into the dish of acid. Despite knowing very well who had spoken, I was still decidedly surprised to see that person standing there.

"Oh, hello Gilligan. Is there something I can do for you?"

He shrugged. "The Skipper gave me the afternoon off. Mr. Howell is napping. And all the girls want to do is drink tea. So I was wondering if I could...what's that?" He nodded to the suspended container.

I grinned, quite pleased with his curiosity.

"Tree sap. And this particular sample is massively acidic. Of course, I'll have to run more tests, but I've been thinking, perhaps, because this tree's wood isn't totally _disintegrated_ by its own sap, there's a distinct possibility that it would make an excellent…"

"Hey!" he exclaimed, gaping. "It's blue!"

He leaned in for a closer look, carefully placing a hand on either side of the cauldron and gazing at the quietly bubbling contents while leaving me slightly miffed that my monologue had been interrupted. But that foolish thought survived for only a moment.

I didn't see it coming, and when it did it happened so fast.

_Too_ fast.

Did he lean a little too hard on the dish, or didn't the sap didn't react well to the vast concentration of warm air flowing from his wide open mouth? I don't know. But whatever the cause, somehow the container shattered, sending the sap flying across the hut in cobalt streams. One hit my door top center, searing a peephole. Several ate holes in the ceiling before coming back to earth. I dove under my desk, hoping to avoid the shower—literal acid rain. The way it was coming down—and considering the level of destruction it was capable of—I almost expected the sand underfoot to be disintegrated.

The whole affair only lasted for about fifteen heart-pounding seconds, though it felt like far longer. When it seemed as though the last of the acid had fallen, I peered out from my shelter, terrified of what might have become of my young friend. My fears were quickly relieved—he'd somehow retreated to a corner of the hut unscathed, and was apparently star struck by the sap's volatility more than anything. Anyone else would have gotten a face full of the stuff had such an explosion occurred directly in front of them—an experience which would no doubt have unpleasant and potentially fatal consequences. But my theory is that, depending on the day, Gilligan either proves the laws of science many times over or totally defies them. And, thankfully, that day it was the latter.

That's what I was, at first. Thankful. But that only lasted a split second. Gazing up at the ugly holes in my ceiling, and then him open-mouthed in the corner, an almost unspeakable rage rose in my throat. I wanted to shake him and shake him hard—not only for the damage sustained to my hut, but for the potential injury to himself. I'd _told_ him it was massively acidic, for goodness sake!

But I have always been blessed with the gift of not wearing my heart on my sleeve. And never has it served me better than it did in this instance. For I'm sure, had he sensed I was angry and suppressing violent tendencies, he would not have uttered the next two sentences that came out of his mouth. And then where would I be?

"That was real neat, Professor. Can we do it again?"

At that moment, one final ray of acid crashed down through the roof—and I will admit, considering my state of scientific weakness, I wondered how far into the atmosphere it had to have gone to return at this late date.

But when it faded into the sand, my anger went along with it.

What was I thinking? It wasn't his fault. He's still so fresh-faced, so innocent. He wouldn't do something like that on purpose.

We blame Gilligan for everything that goes wrong on this island—even the things like that explosion that very likely have no identifiable cause. He's a klutz, sure, but is that any reason to make him our scapegoat, or lash out at him for being himself?

There's a hymn that contains the line "If our love were but more simple, we should take him at his word." The line is in reference to God, of course, but think about it. Gilligan accepts people for who they are, despite peer pressure to do otherwise. He just loves, because he knows everyone deserves to be loved. And all he asks is to be loved in return.

I don't know any love simpler than that. And perhaps, if _our_ love were but more simple, we might accept him for who he is, the same way he accepts us. After all, as Paul wisely wrote to the Corinthians: "Love is patient, love is kind. It is not jealous, is not pompous, it is not inflated, it is not rude, it does not seek its own interests, it is not quick-tempered, it does not brood over injury, it does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."

I think that just about embodies Gilligan. And we could all learn from him, in that respect.

I suppose he's always been like that. I don't even have to close my eyes to imagine him as a schoolchild, running towards a fallen peer on the playground at Catholic school, stumbling the whole way, limbs all over the place, but intent on his mission. Two nuns stand at the edge of the playground, hands tucked neatly under their voluminous habits. And as he's helping his classmate up, dusting off the skinned knee, the new sister leans over to whisper in the seasoned veteran's ear.

"Which one is that?"

The other nun smiles and shakes her head.

"That's Gilligan."

* * *

 

"You mad, Professor?"

I shook myself back to reality, and realized that I hadn't heard what he'd said.

"What?"

He absentmindedly stuck his finger through one of the holes in the wall, then turned back around to face me.

"Are you mad, Professor?"

I paused for a moment before answering his question. But I knew all along what I was going to end up saying.

"No, Gilligan. I'm not mad."

* * *

 

I don't think, from that day forward, I've ever really looked at Gilligan the same way. Something has just changed in my perception of him. I don't believe I could pinpoint it, though I am nonetheless very aware of it.

But these days, when I see he's gotten himself tangled up in a fishnet or added sodium benzoate where he should have put potassium chloride, I don't endlessly chew him out. I simply shake my head, and, with a smile on my face, start working out the knots or quietly adjusting my notes so as to fit the new chemical combination.

And, just like the nun in my imagination, I say to myself, "That's Gilligan."


End file.
